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Chapter Text

Hermione released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding as she stared down the length of the Hogwarts Express. Once upon a time, standing on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters had filled her with excitement— her heart fluttering at the promise of books, lessons, and magic waiting beyond the castle walls. Now, the only thing stirring in her chest was dread.

Perhaps it was because she was returning alone, without Harry and Ron flanking her as they had for seven years. Or perhaps it was because the castle itself loomed like a battlefield scarred by memory, its shadows heavier now that so many voices would never return. Whatever the reason, Hermione found herself regretting— just a little— that she had declined Kingsley’s offer of a Ministry position.

Ron and Harry had leapt at the chance to train as Aurors, throwing themselves into the Ministry’s service with reckless eagerness. Their choice had driven a fissure through what she’d once believed was an unshakable friendship.

Well— steady with Harry, at least. Ron was another matter.

Their attempt at romance had lasted barely a fortnight after that impulsive kiss in the Chamber of Secrets. Hermione had quickly realized she felt nothing more than brotherly affection for him. Ron, true to form, had not taken the revelation gracefully. His fury and heartbreak had been loud and public, followed by a sheepish apology days later that left their friendship brittle and uncertain.

Hermione had told him, truthfully, that she was returning to Hogwarts because she wanted her education completed on her own merits, not because the world owed her something for being a war heroine. Yet beneath that sensible explanation lingered a nagging pull, some deeper reason she couldn’t yet name.

“Boarding Express happening now,” a magically amplified voice echoed across the platform, jolting her back to the present.

Adjusting her grip on Crookshanks’ carrier, Hermione stepped up into the train. The warm, familiar smell of polished wood and smoke enveloped her. As she moved down the corridor, her gaze snagged on a shock of pale hair that gleamed under the carriage lights.

Malfoy.

He looked thinner than she remembered, haunted almost, though his platinum hair remained as immaculate as ever. His expression was shuttered, his posture stiff as Pansy Parkinson and Theodore Nott herded him toward a compartment.

Hermione froze. He glanced at her just before disappearing through the compartment door. To her surprise, his grey eyes held no malice. If anything, they flickered with something that looked like reluctant respect.

Her pulse quickened. She turned quickly, pretending not to notice him, and scurried further down the train.

“Mione!”

The familiar voice of Ginny Weasley cut through her thoughts. Relief rushed through Hermione as she spotted Ginny waving her over. Inside the compartment, Luna Lovegood sat serenely, already lost in her own world.

“Hello, Hermione. My, you’ve got a cloud of wrackspurts swirling about your head,” Luna observed dreamily, tilting her head. “Daddy always says that means there’s something troubling you.”

Hermione smiled faintly, though her chest tightened. Luna’s harmless comment struck too close to home. Since the battle, Hermione had noticed worrying gaps in her memory— small moments missing like ripped pages from a book. A mind healer had explained it as her mind protecting itself, blocking things too painful to hold. They assured her the memories would return in time. Still, the thought unnerved her.

Ginny leaned forward, her voice hushed with excitement. “Did you hear? Malfoy’s on the train.”

“I didn’t hear it,” Hermione admitted, “but I saw him.”

Ginny gasped. Luna hummed thoughtfully, as though the news explained something only she could see.

“That would explain the wrackspurts,” she said with a faraway smile.

“But why?” Ginny frowned. “Why would he even come back?”

Hermione folded her hands in her lap, thinking carefully. “It’s most likely part of his parole. Perhaps the professors have been asked to observe him— to see if he’s changed.”

It made sense. The Ministry had tried to make examples of the Malfoys after the war, but with limited success. Lucius had been sentenced to life in Azkaban. Narcissa, spared by Harry’s testimony of her role in saving his life, was confined to a single year of house arrest. Public opinion had turned her into something resembling a tragic heroine rather than a villain.

Draco’s trial had been the fiercest. The Wizengamot had wanted him imprisoned for life, painting him as his father’s son. But Harry had intervened again, offering memories of that terrible night atop the Astronomy Tower, proof that Draco had not killed Dumbledore. He had also spoken of Malfoy’s hesitation at Malfoy Manor, when Harry’s life had hung in the balance. Reluctantly, the Wizengamot had granted parole, though the rest of his sentence remained sealed.

“Sending him back to Hogwarts is probably their test,” Hermione mused aloud. “To see who he becomes when he’s given the chance.”

Ginny nodded thoughtfully, though her eyes still sparkled with suspicion. Luna, meanwhile, stared dreamily out the window, her fingers twirling absently through her hair.

“So,” Ginny asked after a pause, her tone gentler, “how was your summer?”

Hermione’s throat tightened. “I went to Australia. I restored my parents’ memories.” Her voice wavered. “But they didn’t want to come back. They said they’d write. And… that was that.”

Ginny’s face softened with sympathy. “I’m so sorry, Mione.”

Hermione nodded, blinking quickly to push back tears. She forced herself to change the subject. “And you? How are you and Harry?”

Ginny hesitated, then gave a sheepish smile. “We’re not together anymore.”

“What?!”

“We gave it a try,” Ginny explained, “but it turns out what I felt was just… well, fangirl feelings. Not real. And I realized I like women. Harry and I are still friends, though.”

Relief warmed Hermione’s chest. “I’m glad you stayed friends.” She thought briefly of Ron, of how their own bond had fractured, but pushed the thought aside.

The compartment fell into an easy quiet. Ginny and Luna soon launched into chatter about their summers, their voices weaving together into a comfortable backdrop. Hermione absently stroked Crookshanks’ fur, her mind wandering back to the image of Draco Malfoy in the corridor.

His features had sharpened since she’d last seen him, the haunted look softening his once-arrogant face. She startled at her own thought— handsome? Was she truly thinking that?

With a quick shake of her head, Hermione resolved to push the notion aside. She had bigger plans. This year, she intended to take steps toward true unity between the houses. And perhaps, just perhaps, that first step would begin with Draco Malfoy.

Chapter Text

The train’s whistle shrieked as the scarlet engine slowed, steam curling against the windows. Chatter swelled in the compartments as students stirred and gathered their belongings.

Crookshanks leapt from Hermione’s lap, stretching luxuriously before padding toward the door. Hermione smoothed her robes and glanced at Ginny and Luna, who were likewise straightening their things. The compartments always seemed smaller at the end of the journey, as though the train itself was eager to disgorge its passengers.

“Ready for this?” Hermione asked softly.

Ginny gave a long, determined sigh and shoved the door open. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

They spilled into the corridor, following the tide of younger students toward the exit. Crookshanks disappeared into the crowd with a flick of his tail, off to whatever mysterious route carried him to the castle each year.

“Firs’-years, this way! Over here, yeh lot!” Hagrid’s booming voice carried across the platform, his massive hands waving like beacons over the crowd of small, nervous children.

His beetle-black eyes swept over the older students, and then he spotted Hermione. His face split into a wide grin.

“Well, if it ain’ Hermione! Good ter see yeh, it is!” he called, raising a huge hand in greeting.

Hermione smiled and lifted her hand to wave back, warmth flickering in her chest at the sight of him. For a brief moment, with Hagrid’s cheerful voice filling the air, she could almost pretend things were the way they had been before the war.

They pressed onward until the line of carriages loomed ahead. Luna lingered at a thestral, laying a gentle hand against its silken black hide. Ginny, never one for hesitation, opened the nearest door and climbed inside. Hermione followed— only to freeze.

Draco Malfoy was already there, lounging with cool precision beside Theodore Nott and Pansy Parkinson.

She nearly stumbled backward, but Ginny’s hand shot out and steadied her, tugging her firmly inside. Luna glided in after them, unconcerned as ever. The carriage gave a lurch and began to roll toward the castle.

“Well, well,” Draco drawled. “Look what fate’s dumped into our lap, Theo.”

“The Gryffindor princess herself,” Theo grinned, eyes glinting.

“Malfoy. Nott. Parkinson.” Hermione inclined her head, schooling her face into neutrality.

“Hello, I suppose,” Ginny huffed, crossing her arms. Luna simply smiled dreamily, gaze drifting between the three Slytherins as if she could see something the rest could not.

“So, Malfoy,” Ginny said bluntly, “why are you here?”

Pansy let out a delighted snort. “Honestly, Weasley. You’ve the subtlety of a flobberworm.”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “Well? What’s the answer?”

Draco’s grey eyes slid from Ginny to Hermione. The weight of his stare prickled along her skin.

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” he said lazily, “my parole requires it. And even if it didn’t, my mother would have dragged me back. Rebuilding reputation and all that.” His lip curled in distaste at the last words.

“Aha! Called it!” Ginny exclaimed triumphantly. “Hermione guessed the same.”

Heat rushed to Hermione’s cheeks. “I wasn’t guessing. It was the logical conclusion.”

Theo leaned forward with a smirk. “Interested in Draco, are we, Granger?”

“No!” Hermione’s protest came too quickly, too fiercely. Her cheeks flamed as she fixed her eyes firmly on the window.

Pansy cackled, delighted. “Oh, this year is going to be fun.”

“The carriage is full of wrackspurts,” Luna said serenely, breaking the tension.

All eyes swiveled toward her. She gazed back with mild amusement, offering no explanation.

“Right,” Pansy muttered, bemused. “Of course.”

Theo cleared his throat, reclaiming attention. “How about this? A truce. Between us and you lot. There’s no telling how they’ll house us eighth years, and we’d be better off prepared.”

Hermione blinked at him. Of all people, Theo Nott extending an olive branch was not what she had expected. He extended his hand, waiting.

Hermione’s instinct screamed to hesitate, but something in his expression— wry, but not mocking— pushed her forward. She clasped his hand.

“Agreed,” she said firmly.

Pansy sighed as though inconvenienced but eventually thrust her hand out as well. Hermione shook it. Across from her, Draco and Theo shook Ginny and Luna’s hands in turn.

When Draco’s palm closed around hers, Hermione felt it again: a strange jolt, as though the air itself had recognized their touch. His eyes flickered briefly in surprise before shuttering again. He released her almost at once, but the faint charge lingered in her fingers.

Luna tilted her head, gaze lingering curiously between them. Then she smiled and said nothing.

The carriage jolted to a halt before the castle gates. Theo hopped down first, gallantly gesturing. “Ladies first.”

Pansy swept past him with a toss of her hair, Luna following with her usual unearthly grace. Hermione exchanged a look with Ginny before stepping down. The boys trailed after them as they crossed the familiar stone steps into the castle.

McGonagall waited in the Entrance Hall, her sharp gaze sweeping across the students.

“Eighth years, over here, please.” She gestured crisply to the right. The rest of the students filed into the Great Hall, laughter and voices echoing as they passed.

Hermione fell into line, counting heads. Only fourteen of them had returned. The number hit her like a stone in the chest. Hogwarts had always felt haunted, but this was different— these walls carried screams that would never fade.

She shivered.

“As you know, your circumstances are slightly different,” McGonagall addressed them. “Instead of your individual common rooms, you’ll share one. Curfew remains midnight. No leaving the grounds except on weekends. Understood?”

A chorus of assent followed.

“What about classes and meals?” Lavender Brown piped up.

“They remain as usual,” McGonagall replied. “You will attend with the seventh years. After dinner, I will escort you to your new quarters. Am I clear?”

“Yes, Headmistress.”

“Good. Off you go, then.”

Hermione followed Parvati and Lavender toward the Gryffindor table, settling beside Ginny. The Great Hall felt both unchanged and utterly different. Candles floated above, the Sorting Hat sang in the corner— but the air was heavier, more fragile.

As Ginny launched into a lively retelling of their “truce” with the Slytherins, Hermione only half listened. Her eyes strayed toward the Slytherin table where Draco sat.

Something nagged at her. The way his hand had felt in hers, the flicker in his eyes— familiar in a way she couldn’t place.

A memory just out of reach.

She pressed her lips together, heart quickening. Whatever it was, her mind refused to yield it.

For now, she told herself, it was enough to wonder.

Chapter Text

Hermione was jerked out of her drifting thoughts when Ginny gave her arm a light shake.

“McGonagall’s called the eighth years to meet in the Entrance Hall,” Ginny said gently. Concern flickered in her brown eyes. “You all right, Mione?”

Hermione forced a small smile. “I’m fine. Just… lost in my head. It’s strange, being back.”

Ginny’s expression softened, but she didn’t push further. Instead, she gave Hermione a brief squeeze before they joined the others gathering near the great oak doors.

“Okay, you lot,” McGonagall said briskly, her tone carrying the kind of no-nonsense warmth that had always steadied Hermione. “I’ll take you to your new common room. As I’ve said, curfew is midnight. If you fancy a stroll, fine, but keep it sensible. I don’t want Madam Pomfrey sending word that any of you turned up half-frozen because you thought you were above rules.”

There were a few chuckles— mostly from Theo, whose smirk suggested he might test the curfew within the week.

McGonagall spun on her heel, tartan robes flaring, and set off up the marble staircase. The group followed. Hermione caught snippets of chatter behind her: Lavender and Parvati whispering excitedly, Dean and Seamus walking close together— and holding hands.

Parvati gasped softly. “Did you expect that?”

“Not really,” Lavender whispered back, “but I’m not surprised.”

Hermione glanced over her shoulder just long enough to confirm it— their fingers laced together, Seamus looking sheepish but happy, Dean looking fiercely protective. The sight tugged unexpectedly at her chest. After everything, maybe love could survive the war after all.

The corridors twisted and turned as McGonagall led them deeper into the castle. Finally, she stopped before a portrait of a serene-looking witch Hermione only half remembered seeing before. The woman inclined her head politely as McGonagall addressed the group.

“This here is your common room. Password is sicut familia. Remember it. The library will remain open until midnight exclusively for eighth years.” McGonagall’s gaze swept the group, sharp as a hawk. “I expect you’ll behave like the adults you claim to be. Goodnight.”

And with that, she swept away, her tartan vanishing around the corner.

“Sicut familia,” Pansy said crisply. The portrait swung open, revealing a broad, warm room.

Hermione stepped inside with the others, inhaling deeply. It smelled of polished oak and old parchment, with rich brown furnishings accented by golden lamplight. Paintings of the four founders hung along the walls, each eye following them with silent curiosity.

Two doors branched off— left for the girls, right for the boys.

“Everyone’s got their own room,” Pansy announced, waving a parchment she had clearly been quick to claim. “Bathrooms are the same as usual. Girls left, boys right.”

The others nodded, though the room remained stiff with unspoken tension.

“Well? Shoo,” Pansy said with a dismissive flick of her wrist at the boys. Theo only grinned, but he and Draco filed obediently toward the right-hand door.

Lavender’s voice sliced through the silence. “And who put you in charge, death eater?”

Parvati reached for her arm, but Lavender shook her off, eyes locked on Pansy.

Pansy’s dark eyes narrowed, though her voice came out like velvet over steel. “Someone had to, Brown. And no offense, but Granger looks about five minutes from keeling over.” She gave Hermione a tight, knowing smile. “So that leaves me.”

Hermione opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again. She was exhausted— more than she wanted to admit. The gaps in her memory had gnawed at her all day, leaving her head aching. Still, it startled her that Pansy had noticed.

Turning away from the brewing argument, Hermione slipped out into the corridor. She could already hear Lavender and Pansy’s voices rising, sharp as knives. She wasn’t going to spend her first night back in a shouting match.

The library was calling.

******

The familiar smell of ink and vellum enveloped her as she stepped into its cavernous hush. Shelves stretched away into the shadows, promising solace. Hermione let herself breathe for the first time all day.

She wandered the stacks, fingers brushing spines, until she gathered a few promising tomes. Her steps carried her almost unconsciously toward her favorite nook, tucked between high windows and half-hidden behind shelves.

But the chair was already occupied.

Draco Malfoy sat with an ancient, battered book open in his hands. He looked up at her intrusion, grey eyes cool.

“Granger.”

“Malfoy.”

Hermione hesitated, then sat opposite him, hugging her books to her chest. “I didn’t expect anyone here.”

He smirked faintly. “Don’t worry, Granger. I won’t bite. Unless you ask.”

Heat flooded her cheeks. “Obviously I don’t assume you’d bite, Malfoy. It’s just… no one usually sits here.”

He snorted softly, gaze dropping back to his book.

Curiosity pricked her. “What are you reading?”

“The Hobbit. Mother found it in a shop. Thought it might… broaden my horizons.” His lips twitched in something almost like amusement.

Hermione blinked. “That’s a Muggle book.”

“Sharp as ever,” he said dryly. Then, more seriously: “She and I made an effort this summer. Learning more about Muggles. About your world.”

Hermione stared, suspicion warring with interest. “Why?”

He shut the book softly, meeting her gaze. “Because contrary to what half the wizarding world believes, not every Malfoy wanted mass slaughter. What most of us wanted was for traditions to be respected. For Muggleborns to actually understand the culture they were joining. Tell me, Granger,  how much did you really know when you arrived?”

Hermione’s lips parted, then closed again. She thought of her eleven-year-old self, clutching Hogwarts: A History. “Not much,” she admitted. “And even the books are vague.”

Draco nodded. “Exactly. And in the gaps, people like my father filled the silence with poison. You were dropped into our world blind and we were told to despise you for it. That’s not your fault. But it twisted everything.” He paused, voice low. “I’m sorry for what I said to you. For what I did. I believed him, and I shouldn’t have.”

Hermione stared, shock freezing her tongue. She had never expected an apology from Draco Malfoy. Not in a thousand lifetimes.

Silence stretched between them, filled only by the crackle of a lamp’s flame.

At length, Draco checked his watch. “Ten to curfew. Come on.” He rose and extended his hand to her.

She hesitated, then slid her palm into his. The jolt of energy sparked again, sharper this time, racing up her arm. His jaw tightened, but he said nothing, releasing her hand as soon as she was standing.

As they walked side by side through the dim corridors, Hermione caught the faint scent clinging to him: something clean and sweet, threaded with the dusty comfort of parchment.

Her breath caught. Peppermint.

The same scent she had once confessed to Slughorn’s class— her Amortentia.

*****

Hermione parted ways with Draco at the common room entrance, heart pounding. She was grateful the room was empty— she couldn’t explain walking in beside him without inviting questions she wasn’t ready to answer.

She stopped at her door to grab her toiletries— and froze.

Pansy was lounging on her bed, one eyebrow arched.

“What are you doing here?” Hermione asked warily.

“I saw Draco follow you out. Thought I’d see what that was about.”

Hermione frowned. “He was already in the library when I got there.”

Pansy laughed, shaking her head. “He wasn’t. But if that makes you feel better, believe it.” She rose, smirking. “Just… pay attention, Granger. You might notice more than you think.”

With that cryptic remark, she swept out, leaving Hermione unsettled.

As Hermione unpacked her bag in the shared bathroom, she squeezed peppermint toothpaste onto her brush— and the realization hit her like a curse.

That was the scent clinging to Draco. Peppermint and parchment.

Her Amortentia.

She gripped the sink, staring at her reflection.

“Oh hell.”

Chapter Text

September 1996 – Sixth Year

Hermione’s shoes slapped against the flagstones as she hurried down the corridor, robes flaring behind her. She hated being late for class, but Prefect duties had held her up— two fifth-years caught giggling in a broom closet, McGonagall’s frown like a dagger at her back. By the time she reached the dungeons, her pulse was hammering.

She pulled up short.

Draco Malfoy was leaning against the wall by the Potions classroom, arms folded, an almost bored smirk curling his mouth.

“Oh,” Hermione muttered, faltering. He was alone— no Crabbe, no Goyle, no Pansy at his elbow.

“In a hurry, Granger?” His grey eyes glinted, voice smooth as silk. “Maybe if you pulled your nose out of a book once in a while, you’d know what time it was.”

Hermione bristled automatically— and yet her heart skipped. For one absurd, dangerous moment, she thought: handsome.

The thought jolted her. Malfoy was arrogant, cruel, a blood purist through and through. And yet, standing there in the half-light, his face drawn but striking, the word still echoed traitorously in her mind.

“Sod off, Malfoy,” she snapped, too weary for a proper retort.

His smirk widened, but before he could answer, footsteps echoed. Theodore Nott appeared, giving Malfoy a brief nod before sliding past. Other students began to gather, voices bouncing off the cold stone.

The classroom door opened. Slughorn beamed. “Come in, come in! Welcome back!”

The memory shifted— faces blurring, voices slipping in and out. Ron and Harry rushing in, Slughorn waving them cheerily inside. Cauldrons gleaming. A potion like liquid pearl shimmering in the light.

“Amortentia,” Hermione heard her own voice say, distant and strange. “The most powerful love potion in the world. It smells different for everyone. For me, it’s… peppermints and parchment.”

Her cheeks burned, even in memory. A voice whispered against the edges of her mind, urgent, pleading.

Remember.

*****

Hermione jerked upright in bed, chest heaving.

The dormitory was dark, shadows stretching across the walls. Her sheets were damp with sweat, her hair plastered to her forehead.

She pressed a trembling hand to her mouth. That hadn’t been a dream— not really. It had been a memory. Sixth year. Potions class. She remembered speaking those words once, the embarrassment of saying them aloud. But this time, there had been more.

That voice. That insistence.

Remember.

Her stomach turned.

She swung her legs out of bed, fumbling for her wand. The clock on her nightstand glowed faintly— just after six. Breakfast wouldn’t begin for another hour. She should lie back down, close her eyes, but her skin crawled.

She needed answers.

*****

The corridors were eerily quiet as she padded toward the Hospital Wing, note from her mind healer clutched in her hand. Her footsteps echoed too loudly, every sound amplified in the silence.

The heavy doors creaked open. “Madam Pomfrey?”

The mediwitch bustled out of her office, only to slow when she saw Hermione standing alone. “Gracious, child, you gave me a fright. What is it?”

Hermione thrust the folded parchment toward her. “My healer asked me to give you this. I—” She faltered. “I’ve been having… dreams. Or memories. I’m not sure which.”

Pomfrey scanned the note, her frown softening slightly. “These things happen after trauma. The mind locks things away to protect you.”

Hermione swallowed. “But what if it wasn’t just me? What if— what if someone else tampered with my mind?”

Pomfrey hesitated. For a heartbeat, Hermione thought she saw something flicker in the woman’s eyes— recognition, maybe, or unease. But then Pomfrey’s expression smoothed.

“You mustn’t overthink it, Miss Granger. Rest, eat, and give yourself time.”

Hermione nodded, unconvinced.

“And, for Merlin’s sake,” Pomfrey added with a faint smile, “it’s Saturday. No classes today. You’ll have time to breathe.”

Hermione flushed scarlet. “Oh. Right.” She gathered her things quickly and fled before Pomfrey could press further.

*****

Back in her dormitory, she curled beneath her covers, staring at the ceiling.

The healer had told her the same: memory gaps were natural after trauma. But this dream didn't feel natural. It felt deliberate.

Someone wanted her to forget.

And yet someone else, or maybe even a buried part of herself, was urging her to remember.

Her chest tightened as she pressed her face into her pillow. She had no proof, no answers. But she knew one thing with chilling certainty: Draco Malfoy was at the heart of it.

Chapter Text

The Great Hall was alive with the hum of conversation, spoons clinking against bowls of porridge, owls swooping down to deliver letters. Hermione sat at the Gryffindor table, but her thoughts weren’t on the meal in front of her. She stirred her eggs absentmindedly, appetite gone. Crookshanks curled under the bench, purring faintly, content in the warmth radiating from the enchanted ceiling above.

Ginny leaned over, nudging her. “You’re brooding again.”

“I’m thinking,” Hermione corrected, though the correction was half-hearted.

“You’re brooding,” Ginny repeated with a mischievous grin, before turning back to Luna, who was explaining in a dreamy tone how wrackspurts thrived in old castles because of “all the echoing thoughts left behind.”

Hermione sighed and reached for her pumpkin juice.

At the staff table, McGonagall rose to her feet, her tartan robes snapping sharply as the enchanted candles swayed overhead. At once the hall hushed, all eyes lifting toward the stern, familiar figure.

“Attention, please,” McGonagall began, her Scottish lilt carrying across the room with ease. “I have an announcement for our returning eighth years.” Her gaze swept over their small cluster of students— barely more than a dozen of them— seated here and there among the other tables.

Hermione straightened.

“As you are aware, this year is not like others. Our school is rebuilding, and so are all of you. It is the firm belief of the staff that such healing cannot be done in isolation. Therefore, you will complete a term-long project: House Unity.”

A ripple of groans traveled down the rows. Lavender rolled her eyes dramatically. Theo muttered loudly enough for half the table to hear, “Sounds like a Ministry slogan.”

McGonagall’s lips twitched as though she’d heard him but chose to ignore it. “You will be paired with a student from a different house. Together, you will design and execute a project that fosters unity within Hogwarts. You will present your work at the end of term. Consider this both a practical exercise and an opportunity to demonstrate the maturity I expect of you as near-adults.”

Hermione leaned forward, quill already scratching against the margin of her timetable. A partnership project could be meaningful if done properly— and she, of course, intended to make sure hers was.

A roll of parchment floated into the air, names scrawling themselves across its surface with McGonagall’s neat script. It hovered down the aisle, pausing at each table for students to see. Hermione craned her neck.

Her eyes scanned the list— and froze.

Granger and Malfoy.

Her fork slipped from her hand, clattering against her plate.

Across the hall, Draco looked up at the exact same moment. His eyes met hers across the distance, cool and assessing. For a heartbeat she thought she saw annoyance, then resignation, then something else she couldn’t quite place.

Ginny elbowed her. “Oh, this is brilliant.”

Hermione flushed scarlet. “It’s not brilliant. It’s… unfortunate.”

“Fate,” Ginny corrected with a wicked grin.

“Shut up,” Hermione hissed.

*****

Later that morning, Hermione marched into the library with her arms full of parchment rolls, textbooks, and quills. She claimed a table near the tall windows, where light pooled across the oak surface. If she was going to work with Draco Malfoy, it would be done properly: with order, structure, and clear expectations.

He arrived five minutes late, strolling in with the same languid air he had always carried, though thinner now, shadows still haunting the angles of his face. He dropped his bag into the chair opposite hers with a thud and sat, folding his arms across his chest.

“All right,” Hermione began briskly. “We need to decide on a direction. Something that genuinely encourages unity between the houses. A tutoring exchange, perhaps. Or an academic symposium—”

“Dull,” Draco cut in.

Her quill stilled. “Excuse me?”

“Dull,” he repeated, leaning back with irritating confidence. “No one wants to sit through lectures and essays masquerading as ‘unity.’ That’s just Gryffindors preaching at everyone else again.”

Hermione’s mouth dropped open. “That is not what I—”

“Isn’t it?” His gaze was sharp, but not cruel— more like a challenge. “Unity has to feel equal. Not something handed down like a set of rules.”

Hermione blinked, thrown off-balance. Annoyingly, he wasn’t entirely wrong. She remembered how the younger students used to whisper that Gryffindors acted as though they were the school’s moral compass. And here Draco was, pointing it out with cool precision.

“Fine,” she said tightly, though her cheeks burned. “What do you suggest then?”

Draco tapped his fingers against the table, considering. “Something interactive. A showcase of talents— magic, dueling, charms, even art if anyone cares. Each house paired together, building something as a team. No speeches. No hierarchy. Just participation.”

Hermione hesitated, then felt her mind begin to race with possibilities. “That… could actually work,” she admitted grudgingly. “Each house contributing their strengths. Demonstrations, performances, maybe even cultural traditions. If done right, it could be extraordinary.”

Draco’s lips curved faintly. “Look at that. You agree with me.”

“I agree that it’s a decent idea,” Hermione snapped, scribbling furiously on her parchment. “One idea doesn’t make you a visionary.”

“No,” he said smoothly, “but it does make me right. Which I intend to remind you of frequently.”

Hermione pressed her quill down harder than necessary, determined to ignore the strange flutter in her chest.

*****

They worked in tense but surprisingly productive silence for the next hour, refining the project. Draco’s sharp strategic thinking balanced her meticulous planning in a way that startled her. Every time she dismissed a concept, he countered with a practical solution. Every time he grew too cynical, she redirected toward a constructive angle.

When at last they had the beginnings of a plan sketched out, Draco stood, gathering his bag. “This might actually work, Granger.”

“Of course it will,” she said automatically, then faltered when she realized she meant because of him too.

He hesitated, then added quietly, “You don’t have to look over your shoulder every time I speak. I’m not—” He broke off, running a hand through his pale hair. “I’m not here to fight anymore.”

Hermione stared at him, startled by the raw note in his voice.

And just for an instant, another memory flickered— Draco’s pale face, shadowed and strained, standing in a darkened corridor, whispering words she couldn’t quite hear. Her stomach clenched. She knew that memory. She almost knew it. But when she reached for it, the image dissolved like smoke.

She swallowed hard, shoving books into her bag. “We’ll see,” she said softly, and hurried past him before he could read her expression.

Chapter Text

The fire crackled in the hearth of the eighth-year common room, its warmth doing little to thaw the undercurrent of tension that seemed to hum constantly through the space. For all that McGonagall insisted the shared quarters would help rebuild bridges between houses, Hermione wasn’t sure if the old wounds could be patched over with forced proximity.

Still, she tried.

She sat at one of the oak tables with parchment spread before her, Crookshanks curled around her ankles, quill scratching steadily as she refined the notes she and Draco had gathered earlier in the library. Their project was finally taking shape— the outlines crisp, the objectives defined— and though she would never admit it aloud, Draco had been… useful. Maddening, yes. Sharp-tongued and arrogant, certainly. But undeniably clever, and to her reluctant relief, reliable.

Across from her, Draco leaned back in his chair, arms folded loosely as he surveyed her neat handwriting. “You’ve miscalculated there,” he murmured, pointing to a figure at the bottom of the parchment.

Hermione narrowed her eyes but checked the number. Blast it, he was right. “I was distracted,” she said tightly, crossing it out.

He smirked. “Careful, Granger. Keep admitting mistakes like that and I’ll start to think you’re human after all.”

She rolled her eyes, biting back a retort— and then the door opened.

Hermione looked up— and her heart gave a jolt.

“Harry!” she gasped, pushing back her chair and rising before she’d even thought about it.

Harry strode into the room, still in the simple black robes of a trainee Auror. His hair was as untidy as ever, his glasses slightly crooked, but his green eyes lit up when they found her. Without hesitation, he crossed the floor and pulled her into a hug.

The air whooshed out of her lungs as she clung to him, relief flooding her chest. “Oh, it’s so good to see you.”

“You too, Mione,” he said warmly, holding on just a moment longer before stepping back. “I’ve missed you.”

She smiled, the warmth in her chest grounding her. For all the fractures and uncertainty, Harry was still Harry.

And then Ron followed him inside.

Hermione’s smile faltered.

Ron’s eyes swept the room, landed on Draco seated across from her, and darkened instantly. “Figures. First thing I see is you playing study buddy with him.”

Draco raised an elegant brow but said nothing, though the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth was insufferable.

“Ron,” Hermione said sharply, her voice clipped.

But before the tension could snap, Lavender’s voice cut through the air. “Honestly, why are we even letting her sit here?” She flicked her chin toward Pansy, who lounged in an armchair near the fire, a book open lazily in her lap. “Death eater trash, the lot of them.”

Pansy’s eyes narrowed to slits. She set her book down with deliberate care, her voice velvet and venom. “Say that again, Brown. Go on. I’d enjoy watching you choke on it.”

Lavender tossed her hair, emboldened by Ron at her side. “Everyone’s thinking it. I just have the guts to say it.”

Hermione’s quill slipped from her fingers, clattering noisily to the ground. She could feel the whole room tighten, sparks about to catch.

And then Harry spoke.

“Enough.” His voice was firm, cutting cleanly through the rising noise. He stepped forward, gaze steady, his tone carrying that quiet authority that had led people into battle. “Pansy’s here because she stayed and fought. She deserves the same chance as the rest of us.”

The silence was instant, thick. Even Pansy blinked in surprise. Her lips curved into a faint smirk, though her eyes glittered with something unreadable. “Well, Potter,” she drawled. “Perhaps you’re not completely insufferable after all.”

Ron’s face twisted. “You’ve got to be joking. You’re defending her? After everything — after what her friends did?”

“She’s not her friends,” Harry shot back, frustration flashing in his eyes. “She’s here, Ron. She’s trying. We can’t keep tearing each other apart.”

Hermione stepped in quickly, her voice tight but clear. “Harry’s right. Unity means giving people the chance to change. We can’t demand healing while refusing to let it happen.”

Ron turned on her like a lit fuse. “Oh, of course you’d say that. First you dump me, now you’re cozying up with Malfoy and defending Parkinson? What’s next, Hermione — marrying into the lot of them?”

Gasps rippled through the room.

Hermione’s cheeks flamed hot with anger. “That is not fair, Ronald! This has nothing to do with—”

“It has everything to do with it!” he roared. “You always think you know better, don’t you? Always have to be the clever one, the one with all the answers. And now you’re siding with them? After what they did to us? After what they did to Harry?”

Harry flinched but didn’t speak. His silence only stoked Ron’s fury.

Hermione’s hands trembled at her sides. “I’m siding with what’s right! With moving forward. You’re the one stuck in the past, Ron. You can’t cling to hatred forever.”

Ron barked a harsh laugh. “Says the girl who abandoned me half the time for her books and Harry the other half. Don’t act like you’re the saint here, Hermione. You’ve always looked down on me. Always.”

The words were cruel, sharper than any curse. Something in Hermione snapped.

Her hand whipped out before she could stop it.

The crack of palm against cheek echoed through the common room like a gunshot.

Ron staggered back a step, eyes wide, the red imprint of her hand blooming across his face.

Gasps rippled from every corner. Theo gave a low whistle. “Blimey.”

Hermione stood rigid, her chest heaving, tears threatening but unshed. Her voice shook but carried clearly: “Don’t you dare speak to me like that again.”

For a long heartbeat, no one moved.

Ron’s face went scarlet, his ears burning. Without another word, he spun on his heel and stormed out, slamming the door behind him so hard the walls rattled.

The silence left behind was heavy, charged, unrelenting.

Harry rubbed his temples, his voice weary but sharp. “Brilliant. Just brilliant. You two have finally managed to blow it all to pieces.”

Hermione’s throat tightened. She stooped quickly to gather her parchment, fingers trembling so badly her quill slipped to the floor. She didn’t care. She couldn’t bear the dozens of eyes watching her, couldn’t bear Harry’s disappointment or Draco’s unreadable gaze.

Head high, she strode toward the girls’ corridor, each step stiff with pride even as her chest ached.

Behind her, the common room slowly filled with whispers.

And as she vanished behind the door, she didn’t see Draco’s eyes follow her until the very last flicker of her curls disappeared.

Chapter Text

The slam of the common room door still echoed in Hermione’s ears as she fled down the corridor, parchment clutched to her chest. Her cheeks burned, her palm still stung, and the image of Ron’s stunned, furious face was seared into her mind.

She didn’t slow until she reached the girls’ dormitory. The handle rattled under her hand, then the door swung open, revealing the quiet darkness of her room. She slipped inside, shut the door firmly behind her, and leaned against it, chest heaving.

Her legs carried her numbly to her bed, where she collapsed onto the mattress, curling in on herself. The curtains hung still around her, the faint smell of parchment and lavender clinging to the air.

Her hand still burned.

She had slapped Ron. Actually slapped him. The sound of it, sharp and final, replayed again and again in her mind.

Tears pricked hot at her eyes. She pressed her fists against them, but it was no use— the sob burst out, raw and unrestrained. She buried her face in the pillow, shaking as the weight of it all crashed over her.

The soft tap startled her. She froze, hastily scrubbing her eyes, willing her voice not to crack. “I… I don’t want to talk, Harry.”

“It’s not Potter.”

Her head jerked up. That voice— smooth, cool, faintly mocking.

Draco Malfoy.

She swung her legs off the bed, anger rising to replace her tears. “Then I want to talk to you even less.”

Silence followed, then a small huff of breath. “That’s rich, considering half the Tower just watched you slap Weasley hard enough to leave a mark. If you don’t want gossip spreading like Fiendfyre, you might consider damage control.”

Hermione clenched her jaw. Of course he’d come to gloat. “So you came here to mock me? Typical.”

The door creaked open, just a fraction. Draco leaned casually against the frame, hands in his pockets, his pale hair gleaming in the candlelight. His eyes, though, were sharper than usual. Less smug.

“Actually,” he drawled, “I came to see if you were planning to hex Weasley into oblivion the next time you saw him. I’d like front-row seats if so.”

Against her will, a startled laugh burst out of her throat. She pressed her hand to her mouth, horrified— but the sound had broken through the knot in her chest.

Draco smirked faintly. “There it is. Proof you’re not about to drown yourself in tears like a melodramatic Ravenclaw.”

Hermione bristled, tugging her blanket tighter around her shoulders. “That’s an awfully bold assumption, considering you know nothing about me.”

“On the contrary.” He stepped inside, uninvited, and leaned against her desk, his posture deceptively relaxed. “I know enough. You’d never waste time on hysterics when there’s work to be done. Tears, yes, maybe. But only when you think no one’s watching.”

Hermione’s lips parted, stung by how close he’d struck. She crossed her arms tightly, as if the gesture might shield her. “Why are you really here, Malfoy? Surely not to psychoanalyze me.”

Draco’s smirk softened into something unreadable. His voice dropped, quieter now. “Because, as much as it pains me to admit, I know what it’s like when the people you thought you could trust turn on you.”

The words landed heavier than she expected. She blinked, startled. “Ron didn’t… he didn’t turn on me. He’s just—”

“Angry? Bitter? Blinded by loyalty to the wrong person?” Draco tilted his head, studying her as though she were an essay he intended to pick apart line by line. “Pick your poison. Either way, you stood your ground. You were right to.”

Hermione shook her head, biting her lip until it ached. “You say that as if it makes it easier.”

Draco shrugged one shoulder. “It doesn’t. But at least you know where you stand. That’s more than I could say for most of sixth year.”

Her breath caught. Sixth year. He rarely alluded to that time, and when he did, the weight of it always pressed between them like a shadow.

The unexpected validation unraveled her carefully built defenses. She sank onto her bed again, staring down at her hands. “I didn’t want it to happen like that. I didn’t want to lose him.”

Draco pushed off her desk, pacing slowly across the room before stopping near her chair. His voice was flat, but his eyes burned. “You didn’t lose him tonight. You lost him a long time ago. Tonight just proved it.”

His words stung, cruel in their bluntness. She wanted to argue, to insist he was wrong, that Ron was still her friend beneath the bitterness. But some small, aching part of her knew he was right.

Hermione swallowed hard, her throat tight. “It still hurts.”

For the first time, Draco’s gaze flickered, something raw flashing there before he shuttered it behind his usual composure. His hand flexed against the chair, as though he’d nearly reached for her but thought better of it.

“Of course it does,” he said at last, his voice softer. “That’s what makes you you.”

Hermione looked up, startled. There was no sneer in his expression now, no trace of mockery. Just something she couldn’t name, something that unsettled her far more than his insults ever had.

She blinked rapidly, heat rising to her face, and glanced away. “Why are you being… kind to me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Granger,” he said smoothly, though his tone lacked venom. “I’m only pointing out facts. If it makes you feel better, I fully expect you to bite my head off the next time we meet in the library.”

Her lips twitched despite herself. “Most likely.”

“Good.” He straightened, slipping his hands back into his pockets. “It would be insufferable if you went soft.”

Hermione watched him move toward the door, her chest a confusing tangle of grief, anger, and something else she refused to name.

Just before leaving, he glanced back, his eyes lingering on her longer than necessary. “For what it’s worth,” he said quietly, “you hit Weasley harder than I ever managed.”

Hermione gaped, a startled laugh bursting out again— half disbelief, half relief. But Draco was already gone, the door clicking softly shut behind him.

The silence pressed in. She touched her palm, still faintly sore, and for the first time that night the tears didn’t feel quite so heavy. Yet her stomach twisted— guilt, fury, and that maddening spark of comfort Malfoy had planted.

She barely had a moment to gather herself before the door creaked again.

Harry slipped inside, closing it firmly behind him. He dragged a chair closer and sat heavily, scrubbing a hand through his hair— a nervous habit Hermione knew too well.

“Are you alright?” he asked quietly.

Her throat tightened. The question was gentle, but it cracked something in her all the same. She shook her head. “No. But I will be.”

Harry leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. His glasses slid slightly down his nose, and he didn’t bother to push them back. “He had no right to say those things to you. None. You don’t deserve it.”

Hermione’s lips wobbled. “But I slapped him.” The admission sounded small, guilty, even to her own ears.

Harry gave her a long, steady look. “And he earned it.”

A laugh bubbled from her lips, watery but real. She pressed a hand to her mouth, torn between amusement and despair. Harry’s lips curved faintly, though the sadness in his eyes lingered.

Silence stretched between them, heavy and fragile. Hermione drew her knees to her chest, resting her chin on them. “It feels like everything’s falling apart, Harry. Like we fought this war, and won it, but… at the cost of us.”

Harry’s shoulders slumped. He didn’t argue. “Maybe we were already falling apart. The war just made the cracks impossible to ignore.”

His words pierced her. She wanted to protest, to insist the bond between them had been unbreakable once — forged in danger, strengthened by loyalty — but she couldn’t. Not after tonight.

“Ron thinks I’ve always looked down on him,” she whispered, the memory of Ron’s sneer burning in her mind. “That I abandoned him. Do you… do you think that’s true?”

Harry hesitated, fiddling with the hem of his sleeve. “No. I think you loved him the way you could. And maybe it wasn’t enough for him. But that’s not your fault.”

Tears welled again, but Hermione forced them back. “I never wanted to hurt him.”

“I know,” Harry said quietly. “But he’s angry. And he’s not ready to let go of it. He needs someone to blame, and right now that’s you.”

Hermione buried her face against her knees, voice muffled. “I hate that he sees me that way.”

Harry reached out, resting a tentative hand on her arm. “I hate it too. But I see you, Hermione. I know who you are. And I wouldn’t be here at all if it weren’t for you.”

She lifted her head, meeting his gaze. His sincerity was like a lifeline, steady and grounding.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

They sat in silence for a while, the only sound the faint crackle of the dying fire in the common room below. Hermione realized, with a pang, that this was the first time in weeks she and Harry had been alone— really alone. Once, that had been the norm. Now, it felt like stolen time.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” Hermione admitted at last. “I don’t even know if it can be fixed.”

Harry sighed, his green eyes clouded. “Maybe it doesn’t need fixing. Maybe it needs… changing.”

Hermione frowned. “Changing into what?”

“I don’t know.” He leaned back in the chair, staring at the ceiling. “But we can’t keep pretending things are the same. They’re not. You and Ron, maybe you’ll work it out someday. Maybe you won’t. But you and me…” He gave her a small, tired smile. “We’re solid. No matter what else happens.”

Her chest ached with relief and sorrow all at once. “Promise?”

“Promise,” Harry said firmly.

Hermione let out a shaky breath and leaned against the headboard, finally allowing herself to relax, if only a little. For tonight, it was enough.

But after Harry left, and the quiet pressed in again, her thoughts tangled restlessly. Ron’s furious words echoed still, cruel and bitter. And beneath them, softer but no less persistent, lingered Draco’s: Don’t let him make you doubt yourself, Granger.

She hated that Malfoy’s voice lingered at all. Hated more that part of her drew strength from it.

As she lay down, her hand still tingling from the slap, she realized the fracture lines in her old life were deepening— and the shadows of something new, something uncertain, were beginning to form.